I woke at 3:37 a.m. with an envelope slipped between my lips. I was in my bed in my apartment alone as I often was. I pulled the envelope from my mouth and got up to look around. No lights were on. The doors were both still locked. All was quiet on Highland Ave. I sat at my desk in the living room, switched on the lamp, and opened the envelope. “Dear Cicada,” it read, “Your receipt.”
Showing posts with label Mark Strand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mark Strand. Show all posts
Saturday, October 06, 2012
The Most Mysterious Arrival of a Most Unusual Letter
after Mark Strand
I woke at 3:37 a.m. with an envelope slipped between my lips. I was in my bed in my apartment alone as I often was. I pulled the envelope from my mouth and got up to look around. No lights were on. The doors were both still locked. All was quiet on Highland Ave. I sat at my desk in the living room, switched on the lamp, and opened the envelope. “Dear Cicada,” it read, “Your receipt.”
I woke at 3:37 a.m. with an envelope slipped between my lips. I was in my bed in my apartment alone as I often was. I pulled the envelope from my mouth and got up to look around. No lights were on. The doors were both still locked. All was quiet on Highland Ave. I sat at my desk in the living room, switched on the lamp, and opened the envelope. “Dear Cicada,” it read, “Your receipt.”
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
The Even More Mysterious Arrival of an Even More Unusual Letter
after Mark Strand
It was a long drive home, up 6, down 25, through the summer Friday traffic. When I pulled onto Elm Drive I could finally breathe easy. I pushed the black button on the Craftsman opener clipped to my sun visor and the garage door lurched and lifted, but the overhead light didn’t go on as it usually did. Where was my wife’s car? Where was the recyclable bin? I picked up an unaddressed white envelope from the garage floor and pulled the lone sheet of paper out. The words were in crayon, in a child’s hand, but we didn’t have children or friends with children. “Dear Kimosabe” was all it said.
It was a long drive home, up 6, down 25, through the summer Friday traffic. When I pulled onto Elm Drive I could finally breathe easy. I pushed the black button on the Craftsman opener clipped to my sun visor and the garage door lurched and lifted, but the overhead light didn’t go on as it usually did. Where was my wife’s car? Where was the recyclable bin? I picked up an unaddressed white envelope from the garage floor and pulled the lone sheet of paper out. The words were in crayon, in a child’s hand, but we didn’t have children or friends with children. “Dear Kimosabe” was all it said.
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